


I'm Not Crying

by SandraClegane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandraClegane/pseuds/SandraClegane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU - set in England. <br/>This is a Sandor POV story with a lot of fluff and explicit language. </p><p> </p><p>(Rewrote the summary as the previous one was a bit pants!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Break-Up

I’m still staring at the paper when I hear the key turn in the lock. The door to my flat opens, and my girlfriend comes in, a smile on her pretty face, her long ginger hair falling loose about her shoulders. Although she doesn’t like me calling it ginger. It’s ‘auburn’, she says; as if that would make a difference.

She finds me hunched over the table in the kitchen, and I can see her smile falter as she takes in my appearance. Fair enough. I’m never much to look at, but this morning I didn’t even make an effort.

 

“Have you seen this?” I growl, holding the paper up to her. It’s a bit crumpled now, as I’ve been brooding over it for a few hours now. “Have you seen it? They’re giving him a bloody knighthood. Him! A _knight_!” I spit out the last word. In fact, I think I spit out quite literally as well. I quickly wipe my chin.

 

She glances at the paper, then back at me. I can tell she’s not pleased by the way her forehead creases. “Have you been drinking?”, she asks softly. She always speaks softly; always so refined and polite, my little bird.

“Might have had a beer,” I reply. More like four, and half a bottle of scotch as well, but there’s no need to tell her that. –“Sandor! It’s 10 in the morning! Don’t you think that’s a little early?”

 

Trust her to completely miss the point. “But THIS!” I say, waving the paper at her again, “They are making him a fucking knight! For his outstanding service to this bloody country!” I bark out a laugh, which I have to admit sounds a bit hysterical. It _is_ ludicrous though. I mean, anyone who knows my brother Gregor can see that he is pretty much the opposite of a knight in shining armour!

That said, he’s always been good at turning his nasty streaks into something people will applaud him for. Naturally brutal and ruthless, and with a freakishly powerful physique, he made a fine rugby player at the posh public school he got sent to. Mum and Dad only had the money to privately educate one of us, so of course it was him, while I had to let my brain cells rot at the local comprehensive. So when Gregor left school, he didn’t just join the army, no; he had to go to Sandhurst. It still makes me sick to think how ridiculously proud Mum had been to have a son at Sandhurst; and see how he repaid her! Anyway, he left as an officer and was soon deployed to Afghanistan, where he quickly gathered all sorts of medals and decorations for his feats of bravery or whatever. If you ask me, Gregor is just good at war because he likes killing people. With a different upbringing, he’d be an inmate at HMP Brixton now, rather than on Her Majesty’s Birthday Honours list, which is printed in today’s paper.

 

She comes up to me now, gently takes the battered up newspaper out of my hand, and puts her arms around my shoulders. “You can’t let it get to you, Sandor. Look at yourself! Completely drunk and almost mad with rage, on a Sunday morning! I was hoping you’d come to church with me today.”

“Bugger your bloody church,” I snap. I don’t mean to be harsh, but the little bird doesn’t seem to get how outrageous this is. –“Now Sandor, that was uncalled for!”, she reprimands me.

“And bugger your bloody courtesies as well! Always so prim and proper, eh, _Lady Sansa_?” I use her formal title like others would use a swear word. She takes a step back, looking at me, horrified. “What has gotten into you? I know it must be hard for you, to see this about your brother, but there’s no need to let it out on me!” – “What do you know? Eh? What do you know about any of this, or how I feel? You have no idea! Lived in a fucking ivory tower all your sheltered little life, silver spoon in mouth and all! How could you possibly understand?” I must have been shouting, as she retreats even further from me. –“Listen. I know you think I can’t understand, but don’t forget I’m on your side. I’m here for you.”

 

I don’t know what comes over me then; I’d like to blame the alcohol, but I know it’s not purely that. All of a sudden, I hold one of the kitchen knives in my hand, and slam her back against the wall, holding it against her throat. “Come with me then,” I say hoarsely; my face inches away from hers. Even I can smell the beer in my breath, it’s a small surprise she’s not fainting from the vapours. “Let’s just go away. Leave all this shit behind. You’re not happy here, either; you hate your boss and what he’s done to you. We can just pack a few things and leave, never come back. I can look after you. No one would ever hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”

 

“Sandor… _you_ are hurting me. This is madness. Let go of me.”

 

The words are like a bucket of cold water on me, and suddenly I realise I’m holding a fucking knife to her throat, what the fuck? I drop it like it’s on fire, and release my iron grip on her.

 

“I’m sorry, I… I don’t know what came over me then… it’s just, you know, the paper and all…” My voice trails off. And I’m starting to sway a bit. All that booze on an empty stomach maybe wasn’t the brightest idea. “But you will come with me, won’t you?” I rasp. “It’d be like… eloping, ha ha ha, “ I chuckle. “Make a fresh start.”

 

“No, Sandor, no, I won’t. Where does that idea even come from? And you can’t just up and leave like that, you have to make plans and pack and-“ – “And what? So you’re not coming with me, is that it? Is that what you’re saying?” I don’t get it, and I can feel my blood boiling again. So much for being on my side! –“Sandor, I think you need help. Professional help; more than I can give you…” – “Oh, I’m a basket case now, am I? Off to the loony bin with the mad Hound?” I yell. “Well that’s nice! Good to know what you really think of me! Might as well piss off then, I don’t need any more shit in my life!” Seriously! Stupid bitch. Who does she think she is, then? Too good for the likes of me? Here I am offering her a way out of this goddamn city, and the little lady refuses. Refuses! Me!!

 

Her face has gone still, a mask, her blue eyes dark and hard. “If that is what you want… then I’ll go. Don’t worry, you won’t see me again.” – “I hope not!” I snap, venomously.

 

“So that’s it?” She says, in a flat voice. It’s more of a statement than a question. “That’s the end of our relationship?” Quietly, she picks up her bag and heads towards the door.

 

“Yeah, right, just fuck off!” I snarl. I can’t believe she’s leaving, what the fuck?! “See if I care!” I shout, as she leaves my flat and slams the door shut behind her, having dropped her set of keys on the floor.

 

She’s gone. I walk to the door, rest my forehead against it, then slowly slide down until I sit like a crumpled heap of man on the floor. I can feel something wet dripping down my cheeks. “See if I care, “ I whisper.


	2. The Quiet Isle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't have a Sandor story without a quiet isle ;)

I’m sitting on a rock by the beach, the toes of my bare feet curled into the sand, watching the waves. It’s a bit too cold really to have bare feet – it’s cold up here, even in the summer. The day is grey and overcast, the sea a dull muddy colour; but the repetitive sound of the waves crashing and breaking will help me stay calm. At least the Elder Brother seems to think so.

 

I still can’t believe I’m staying in a bloody monastery. A real one, with real monks! It’s laughable, really. I mean, me, and religion, that doesn’t really go well. It was more of a coincidence though, how I ended up here.

 

That day in June, when the little bird left me, I didn’t know what to do at first. And let’s face it, I was a bit inebriated as well. So I clung to the one thing that I had thought of that day – going away. I threw a random assortment of clothes into my gym bag, got my old Triumph out of the garage, and I was off. Out of London. Then north, north, and further up north; until I was forced to stop for petrol and sort of came to my senses. I suppose the alcohol had worn off at that point; and I’d realised just what an idiot I had been – with Sansa, with the drinking, and these, ahem, anger management issues I seem to have. It was a bit of a spur of the moment thing, but I got my phone out and put ‘rehab centre’ in the maps app, to see if there was anything close by. And that’s how I found my way to the Isle of Man, and the monastery, and my ‘life counselling’ sessions with the Elder Brother.

 

That guy is annoying, I’m telling you; but he seems to know what he’s talking about, and he’s given me a few useful tips on how to handle my emotions. God, I cringe at just thinking that! ‘Emotions’; who am I, some bloody teenage girl? Never mind, he helps me, and that’s all that matters.

 

Some gulls circle the sky above me, screeching; the waves keep on crashing, and my mind wanders back to that day when I first saw Sansa.

 

I had been working for Lannister for quite some time. It was a good job really – ‘Head of security’, sounds very impressive; but mostly I just had to lurk around the building. Things got a bit shittier when Cersei, my boss, insisted I keep a close eye on her son when he started at the company. Joffrey is a right little turd, and I saw more of him than I would have liked. Anyway. That day in January. It was right after New Year’s, and I had a horrible hangover. I’d been told by Joff to keep an eye out for the new arrival – some daughter of a friend of his dad or something – so he made me stand outside, freezing my balls off, in order to show that girl where to park her car. As you can imagine, I was in rather a foul mood, frozen stiff and with a pounding headache, when I saw her car approach. I knew it had to be her when I saw the shiny black Chelsea tractor, with the latest reg plate of course, going at about 5mph as clearly she didn’t know where she was going. Typical poor little rich girl, massive car but no clue how to drive, or sense of direction! I flagged her down and she lowered her window and peered out cautiously, avoiding to look at my face. My mood got even blacker at that. “Parking’s out at the back,” I snarled at her. “Turn around, go back where you came in, turn left, and then the next left. Here’s your card for the entrance barrier.” I tossed the piece of plastic in her direction, turned on my heels and went back inside. Job done.

 

A few minutes later, she came tottering in, on ridiculously high heels and in a smart business suit. She spoke to the receptionist, then made her way to the lifts; but when she caught sight of me, she came over. “I wanted to thank you, sir, for waiting out there for me and helping me with the parking,” she chirped. “I’ve not been to London much, and I’ve never driven here; it’s all quite confusing for me! So… thank you.” – “Spare me your false courtesies,” I growled in response. I knew what those air-headed Sloane rangers were like; looking down on guys like me and hiding their disgust behind pretty words. She looked shocked at that, and hurried off to the lifts without another word.

 

Still, she seemed determined to be polite. Every bloody morning she wished me a good morning; and never failed to say good-bye on her way out. She couldn’t look me in the eyes though, no more than every other girl I’d ever met.

 

One evening, on my way home from work – oh well, alright, on my way home from the pub, where I’d gone after work – I heard her voice. Which was odd, as I was passing through rather an unsavoury part of the neighbourhood, and I was sure that the Lady Sansa wouldn’t ever come to a scummy place such as this. My curiosity was piqued though, so I followed the sound of her voice down to a narrow alleyway. “…please, don’t!” I heard her say, before I could see her, behind some large industrial rubbish bins, surrounded by three chavs in trackie bottoms and football shirts. “I’ll give you all my money, look, here; just please, let me go!” –“I don’t think so,” smirked one of the blokes. “I’d rather see what you’ve got under that skirt! Come on, boys, let’s take a look!” The slimy gits laughed at that and moved towards her, two of them holding her arms, while the third made to pull up her skirt.

 

That’s when I saw the red mist. She might have been an annoying, spoilt little brat; but she was _my_ annoying, spoilt little brat. I yanked the first wanker back and felt the satisfying crunch of my fist in his face. He dropped to the floor like a wet dishrag. The other two started to stammer about how they were just going to leave, but it was too late. I gave them a good thrashing; it was quite nice to be in a fight again. Not that it was much of a fight - I used to be quite the mixed martial arts fighter; did competitions and stuff, even had my very own stage name, ‘The Hound’.

When the little scumbags were all lying in the dirt, I half expected Sansa to run away in terror. Instead, she threw herself at me and started sobbing.

I really didn’t know what to do then, but I figured we’d be better off leaving that place, so I lifted her up, threw her over my shoulder and carried her back to my place. Strangely, she didn’t seem to mind.

When we arrived at my flat, I put the kettle on and made her a cup of tea. My mum always used to give me some strong, sweet tea when something bad had happened; and it seemed to work for Sansa as well. “You… you saved me,” she muttered, staring at the floor. “You were being so brave.” – “A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off some rats,” I replied gruffly. It really irked me that she still wouldn’t look at my face. “What were you doing in that area anyway, girl? Do they not teach you common sense at your boarding schools up north?” – “It wasn’t… I wasn’t… I didn’t know it would be like this. Joffrey told me to meet him at a pub there. He gave me the address and everything. I went in and, well, it didn’t look like a… very… _nice_ place,” she said. “After a while, when Joff still hadn’t shown up, I thought it best to leave. Only I got lost, and those _men_ , they must have followed me, and…” her voice trailed off. She looked into her tea cup.

 

Joffrey. I should have known. I don’t know what is wrong with that boy, but he’s got one sick sense of humour. If you can call it that. Sometimes I think the boy’s just a psychopath. Sending that poor naïve thing to some grimy pub, knowing full well what might happen to someone like her after dark.

 

“It’s ok. You’re alright now,” I said. “Thank you so much, sir, I really appreciate-“ But then my temper got the best of me. “I told you once before to spare me your false courtesies!” I bellowed. “If you really mean to thank me, then look at me! _Look at me!_ ” I grabbed her chin and forced her face up. The girl looked terrified, but she looked me in the eye then. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause offense,” she mumbled. “What…what happened? To your face?”

 

I don’t know what it was; the fact that she had just asked me directly, that I had had a drink, or that I had just beaten the shit out of three bastards. But I put the kettle back on, made us both a cup of tea, and I told her everything. Everything. About my brother and the fireplace. About my parents, my granddad. Even about my late sister. When I had finished, she put her hand on my shoulder, and looked me in the eye. “I’m so sorry,” she said; and I knew she meant it.

 

A gush of wind sweeps up my hair and flicks it against my face, and I notice my arse is numb from sitting on this bloody rock for so long. I get up and walk back to the monastery, leaving the monotony of the waves behind. I must somehow have caught the spray though, as there is some wetness around my eyes. Bloody waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and/or left kudos! It means so much.


	3. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! I think the story is nearing its end now, another one or two chapters at most. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy. Comments are always welcome! And thanks for reading :)

I stare at the gate. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this, of course there would be a gate! It was the same at the Lannisters’ pile in the country, down in Kent, where Grandad worked. I remember visiting him at work one day  - he was looking after the kennels and stables, so naturally I was eager to come and see the foxhounds and big hunting horses. We drove up to Casterly Rock, and I was ever so impressed with the big house, until Grandad told me this was just the gate house, the real manor was much further down the drive.

Same here. I can spot two little gate houses to either side of the massive, forbidding looking gate to Winterfell, the Stark family’s country residence in Yorkshire. The little bird told me all about it, forever chirping on about its beauty and comfort, but from where I’m standing it just looks like a grey bleak slab of stone, annoyingly far away, behind a bloody locked gate.

 

I don’t know what to do. To be honest, I didn’t think any further than this – I just meant to come here, knock at the door and talk to the little bird. I sigh, and turn my motorbike’s engine off.

What now? It had seemed like a good plan at the time, I mean, even the Elder Brother approved. After all we have talked about in the past three and a bit months, he said that yes, I should go and talk to her, that I will need to sort things out between us or at least get ‘closure’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He probably didn’t think I’d just pitch up here, without calling first, but never mind.

 

The sun comes out from behind a cloud, and bathed in the golden autumn sun, Winterfell doesn’t look quite so imposing and harsh anymore. The trees which line the driveway twinkle with red and yellow leaves, and the grey walls of the house have a warm orange hue to them now. It’s strange to think I have a girlfriend who lives in a place like this! Well, had. Had a girlfriend.

 

I try to think when I first started calling the little bird my “girlfriend”, but I don’t know. What I do know is that I started calling her “little bird” before I called her my girlfriend.

After the incident in Croydon, things were a bit awkward, at least for me. I didn’t know what had come over me, to blab in front of her like that, so I was rather embarrassed. The little bird didn’t seem to mind though – quite the contrary. She came up to me the next day after work and asked if I fancied to go out for a drink. “Just, you know, after work drinks, nothing special,” she said, actually looking at my face. So of course I agreed. How could I not?

Somehow, it became a regular thing. At first it was every Thursday, a quick drink after work; then we started taking our lunch break together at the café across the road. After a month or so, we were doing something together every day. I don’t recall who it was, but one of us suggested meeting up at the weekend. Might have been me. Might have. So she gave me her phone number, and I arranged to meet her at the zoo.

The thing with London is, you don’t quite realise how noisy and smelly it is once you’ve lived there for a while. I knew the little bird was missing the country life – she had told me in great detail about her life up north, about Winterfell, about her brothers and her parents (was there a sister as well? I think she may have mentioned one, briefly); about the walks that they’d take or how she’d go riding in the woods, or even bloody hawking (now that’s upper class for you!) – so I thought I’d take her out of the stink of the city to something a bit more green.

It was still smelly, because, you know, animals reek! The noise was reduced to a buzz in the background though, and the air felt a bit clearer and not quite so polluted by exhaust fumes.

We wandered around amongst all the tourists and families, stopped here and there, until we came to the Blackburn Pavilion, where the tropical birds are housed. We walked through, watching as the little things fluttered right past us, and paused when we saw what looked like a blue robin land on a twig right by the path. It started tweeting, and for such a little thing it made an awful lot of noise. “Just like you, forever chirping on in your dulcet tones, like a little bird.” I had meant to be sarcastic, but somehow my voice lacked its usual acidity, and Sansa just beamed at me. From that moment on, I’ve never called her anything else.

 

Well, fuck, is it starting to rain now? There seem to be some droplets on my face. I quickly wipe them from my eyes, as I notice a delivery van pull up by the gate. The driver speaks to the intercom, and the gates start to open. Here’s my chance! I hop back onto my bike, and just as the gates are about to close again, I speed through.

 

Ok. I’m in. I follow the van, then turn off as we are nearing the house, and park my bike behind some shrubs. So… do I just try the front door? The delivery driver has gone around to the side, no doubt there’s a servants’ door there. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound! I walk up the steps and ring the bell.

 

The door is opened by a middle-aged lady with brown hair, who doesn’t look much like the little bird. I notice her eyes widen in horror as she takes in the Freddy Krueger side of my face, but she composes herself quickly. “Yes?” she smiles politely. “Is it something about the food order? I thought you’d have gone around to the side entrance.” –“Er, no. I’m here for something else, Lady Stark,” I grumble. The woman laughs. “Oh, I’m not Lady Stark, but I feel rather flattered now!” Her smile is genuine this time. “I’m Mrs Poole, the housekeeper. Now, if this isn’t about the food, how can I help you?” The housekeeper! I should have known; they wouldn’t run a house like this without servants. “I’m here to see the Lady Sansa,” I say in what I hope is a confident manner. Mustn’t show her that this situation is really quite intimidating. “Well, I don’t-“ she starts, only to be interrupted by someone else. “Who is it, Poole?” – “A gentleman asking to see Lady Sansa,” the housekeeper replies. –“Leave him to me.” – “As you wish.” Mrs Poole smiles at me, then retreats into another room.

I still stand outside the door like a lemon when I see this other person approach. It must be one of the little bird’s brothers; a skinny thing with dark, almost black hair and fierce grey eyes, so very different to Sansa that I’m beginning to think this might be another member of staff, rather than family. The air of authority and all around poshness that surrounds him suggests otherwise though.

“What do you want with Sansa?” He gets straight to the point, eyeing me warily. “I just want to talk to her, that’s all,” I say, “so can I come in now?” – “No, you may NOT, Clegane!” he shouts at me. “We won’t have scum like you in here!”

Ok, I didn’t expect that. “Hold on a minute, I didn’t tell you my name,” I growl. In return, I get a derisive snort. “You didn’t need to. Ugly fucker like you, I knew you straight away.”

Right, I’m going to smash his smug little face in! I’ll – no – stop – breathe, Sandor, breathe – what did the Elder Brother say again? In through the nose, out through the mouth, and relax.

“Listen, boy, I’m not looking for a fight, I just-“ – “Well that’s too bad, because you’re getting one!” I see a flash of steel. What the fuck, did that little runt just pull a SWORD on me? What the actual fuck??

“Arya! What are you doing with your épée?” A lady comes down the stairs, looking aghast.

Arya? I look at the boy again; or rather, at the girl. So this must be her sister then. I’m not surprised she didn’t mention her more, looks like a right piece of work. The other lady has come to the door now, and Arya lowers her fencing sword. This must be her mother - she looks pretty much like an older version of the little bird. “Lady Stark, I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to have a word with Sansa,” I say, as demurely as I can manage. “Please,” I add.

“Well, I’m afraid Sansa isn’t home right now. And anyway, I don’t think it would be a good idea, Mr… Clegane?” I nod in affirmation.

“We have heard about you, of course,” Lady Stark continues. “Sansa has told us of your…acquaintance.” Acquaintance my arse, I’m her boyfriend! Keep it together though, keep it together; mustn’t antagonise the mother. “And I’m afraid to say I don’t approve of your being here. Sansa has made it very clear to us that your… association… is over. So please, would you kindly leave.”

I’ve half a mind to argue, but I can see the way her mouth is set in a thin line and she gives me a hard stare. And let’s face it, this wasn’t a well thought-out plan in the first place. So I admit defeat, and nod. “Well, alright, but do tell her that I called.” Ugh, I hate the way that came out; it sounded almost pleading. Lady Stark barely spares me another glance though; and I can see Arya behind her shoulder mouthing “Fuck off!” at me. Little bitch!

 

Back to my bike, and then I’m on autopilot for the rest of the journey home. It’s dark when I arrive at my flat. I unlock the door and step back in time – everything is just as it was the day I left. That day. Everything that happened comes rushing back to me. How did this happen? How did I let this happen? I pick up the crumpled up newspaper from the kitchen floor. How could I let Gregor ruin my life yet again?

But I know who’s to blame, really. I didn’t spend the last few months in rehab for nothing. I’ve fucked up big time, but I’m going to set it right. Looking around this shithole I used to call my home, I’d best start here. Or rather, somewhere else – the little bird never liked this area much, and this grotty one-bed isn’t exactly something you’d feature in ‘Homes & Gardens’.

A new place it is then! I’ll start looking tomorrow. Though… I’d probably best show my face at work first, to see if I still have a job.

 

I don’t relish the thought.  Apart from facing a pissed-off Cersei, I’ll also have to face the fact that Sansa won’t be there, as her work placement will have ended a few weeks ago. And everything there will remind me of her.

 

Just like here, really. Ah, sod the clearing up, it can wait; I’m going to bed. I strip off my clothes on flop down on my bed, burying my head in the pillow. This is even worse – I can still smell the little bird’s scent on the linen… and shit, the flat must have gone damp while I was away, because this pillow is weirdly wet.


	4. Changes

Shit, this is even worse than I had imagined.

 

Obviously I didn’t expect a warm welcome- after all, I didn’t turn up for nearly four months without contacting anyone about it – but the Lannisters have known me for years, all my life really, and we Cleganes have always worked for them. But here is Cersei, all high and mighty, lecturing me about ‘responsibilities’ and ‘duty’, getting herself more and more worked up. I have to admit, I’ve stopped listening a while ago, I just nod and grunt at what I deem appropriate intervals and hope she gets it over with soon, so I can go back to work.

 

“…so of course, as this was gross misconduct, I don’t have to give you any notice. Just pack whatever possessions you still keep here, and leave! And you shan’t be getting a reference from me!” she yells. -Wait, what? Did she just… fire me?

 

“Mrs Baratheon,” I start, but she snaps “THAT’S _LADY_ BARATHEON TO YOU!” before I can even get an apology out. Not that I know what I can say anyway. I’m not good at apologising as it is; much less in these circumstances where I’d rather just gag her to shut her up.

 

Suddenly, the door bursts open, and a short figure strolls in. Oh great, it’s the bloody dwarf. Just what I need! – “I thought I could hear the sweet sound of your voice, dear sister,” he says pleasantly, as if nothing was amiss. Much to my delight, her rage has found a new target now. – “And what do you want, Tyrion? How did you even get in here; I told Taena I wasn’t to be disturbed!” – “Oh, just calling in a favour,” he smiles nonchalantly. “I see the prodigal son has returned – or shall I say the rabid dog?” He turns his ugly mug towards me. Right Sandor, don’t make it worse for yourself! Stay composed! I put on my poker face and give a brief nod in his general direction.

“I’m impressed. No insults for me today, Clegane?” I grind my teeth. Mustn’t…let…it…show! The dwarf seems satisfied by my silence, and addresses his sister again. “I couldn’t help but overhear the last part of your… _conversation_ ,” he says, “and I think I’ve got the ideal solution for all of us.” He beams around the room, as if he’s expecting an applauding crowd to appear from nowhere. “It seems as if you’ve no longer a need for a guard dog, Cersei; so I’d like to offer Clegane to work for me.”

What the…? No, no, focus. Poker face. Good. Let’s not betray any feelings just yet.

“I have received a lot of hate mail recently, since I pushed for the change in legislation.” Yeah, I’m not surprised. Tyrion Lannister is a politician. But hold on – he’s a Labour MP. Labour! Would you believe it! Just how he got elected, I’ll never know. I wonder how many people in his constituency know that he drives a 150K car; or that he probably even puts his toilet paper on expenses. That said, he’s got this whole social justice thing going on, and has sort of become the champion of the sex workers, changing legislation to make them eligible for healthcare and pensions. “The Pimping Imp”, some of the less well meaning newspapers call him. To be honest, I think he initially only joined the Labour party to piss his father off – old Lord Tywin is a Tory through and through – but he seems to be doing alright for himself now.

“Why? What do you want him for, Tyrion? What plans are you hatching that require Clegane?” Cersei is almost beside herself with paranoid rage. –“As I just said, I need personal protection. Surely you wouldn’t want any harm to come to your beloved brother?” I can’t help but smirk a bit, as I know for a fact that’s _exactly_ what Cersei wants. “Of course not,” she quips, “but I wasn’t done with him yet. Clegane, you can start back again tomorrow.” Huh?? – “Oh, is that so? Well, how would you like a pay rise, Clegane? I will give you twice the salary you had here.” The dwarf looks at me expectantly.

Bloody hell. So I’ve gone from jobless one minute to getting double pay the next?!

 

“Suppose it’s time to move my career on a bit,” I grumble, as if I’m reluctant and not at all excited about this. Cersei stares daggers at me, and the Imp grins triumphantly. “I’ll tell Taena to have his P45 sorted out and sent to me, shall I?” he addresses Cersei. “Clegane, you can come with me now and start straight away. I’ll get the paperwork sorted, no worries. A Lannister always pays his debts.” With one last nod to a seething Cersei, I turn around and follow the Imp out of the office. I suppose I’d better start calling him something else now!

 

Outside, Tyrion leads me to his Bentley Continental GT; dragon red, of course. A great looking car though. As I climb in, the smell of the expensive leather and wood finishes reminds me of the little bird’s Range Rover.

I never liked that thing much – way too big and cumbersome in a city that’s congestion central. I used to tease the shit out of her for driving such an uneconomical beast of a car. My face twists into an unbidden smile as I remember how her face got flushed with embarrassment, how she tried to justify having a 4 x 4 in the city. And then the thing with my motorbike…

It was a nice spring day, proper nice, after a few weeks of nothing but rain. So I said I’d take her for a spin. The little bird was a bit reluctant, but I said it would be fun, and anyway she could trust me to keep her safe; but I could tell she was bricking it! Anyway, out we went – past the M25, completely out of London, until we stopped in a picturesque small town in Hertfordshire. I admit, I might have been going a teensy bit fast on the motorways, and took some corners quite flat. Once we were settled at a table in a delightful little pub, I asked the little bird what she had thought of her first ever motorbike ride. “Wasn’t that much better than going by car?” It was plain to see she was struggling to come up with a polite response. “It was…. _stranger_ ,” she finally concluded, and I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Soon we were both giggling like teenagers over her awkward response, and it became our little insider joke – whenever we talked about my motorbike, we would refer to it as “Stranger”.

 

“Blimey, Clegane, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile. Are you that relieved to get away from my sister?”, Tyrion’s voice snaps me out of my memories. Whoops! I must look like a right nancy, sitting here, grinning inanely! Poker face back on!

“Er, well, it was very kind of you to take me on,” I mumble. –“You’re welcome. I do need a bodyguard. And I’m very impressed with what you’ve done. Gone to rehab, sorted yourself out – that should be rewarded.”

Jesus Henry Christ, how does he - how could he possibly – “How do you know what I’ve done!”, I bark, only it comes out a bit more menacingly than I intended. Oh shit, don’t put your new employer off straight away! “I mean, I didn’t think anyone knew where I’d been,” I try to backtrack, in a much calmer voice. Tyrion glances at me briefly, then focuses on the traffic again. “Dame Varys,” he simply replies.

Of course. Varys isn’t a proper Dame, no more than my bloody brother is a real knight. She used to be a spy in the cold war, came to quite some fame in the aftermath, and is now chiefly operating as a whistleblower for anything and everything. “The Spider”, as the papers have dubbed her, has eyes and ears everywhere. I guess I should feel flattered that someone considered me important enough to report about my movements.

“Figures,” I grunt. Tyrion pulls up in front of an impressive looking townhouse. He clicks his beeper, and the electric gate opens. The car glides in almost soundlessly.

We get out, and Tyrion gives me a tour of his house, explaining the alarm system, his daily routine, what I’m expected to do, and so on and so forth. I’m surprised there isn’t much staff – just a cleaning lady coming twice a week. I had him down for one who likes to be waited on hand and foot; but he actually makes us both a cup of tea, and then we sit down on some very plush sofas, and he blabs on some more.

I don’t know why, maybe it’s because the cushions are so nice and soft, or maybe it’s the sweet smelling flowers in a vase on the table, but somehow I get thinking about our first kiss.

Mine and the little bird’s, that is; not mine and Tyrion’s!

 

After that trip to the zoo, we agreed to go out again the following weekend. I still felt a bit perplexed about it all. The little bird was just so friendly, so genuinely happy to see me, so _interested_ in me and my opinions. It just felt a bit weird; I’m usually quite good at scaring people away (if not with my appearance, then with my temper), but she didn’t seem to mind either. I was also a bit worried about the age difference. She had just turned 18, and I’m 33! It made me feel like some lecherous old goat. So I tried to play it cool, you know, just be casual and not get my hopes up, because for all I knew maybe she was just looking for a friend or something, an ally at work to help her cope with the shitty bullying from Joffrey.

The little bird chose the venue for our second date, so of course we ended up in a bloody museum. After a couple of hours in the V&A, I guess she could sense my lack of enthusiasm, so she invited me back to her flat for a cuppa.

Everything was so…nice. It was a nice flat in a nice Victorian house, the walls brightly painted, tasteful furniture, and everything so clean – not an old takeaway tray in sight! We sat down on her plush comfy sofa, sipped at our tea, and talked and talked and talked. I’m not much of a talker normally, but with the little bird it was different, I just couldn’t seem to stop!

And she was looking at me. I mean, _really_ looking at me, burnt side and all. Drinking it all in, as if I were something precious. So I said, “I see you don’t mind looking at me anymore. Not too hideous for your delicate eyes then?” She just smiled, and reached out, and stroked my face. The bad side. “Not at all,” she whispered. “It’s just… part of you. Part of what makes you so special.” I was still pondering whether she meant ‘special’ as in ‘special needs’, when she suddenly leant closer, and the next thing I know is the softness of her lips pressed against mine, and then I couldn’t keep it in anymore and I held her tight, and kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her.

 

“…Clegane, are you alright? Are you _crying_? Is the prospect of working for me so daunting?” Tyrion’s voice rips me out of my daydream.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” I growl. “Just burned my tongue on the hot tea, is all.” Stupid dwarf, trust him to get the wrong end of the stick!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwing a few more characters in the mix! I hope you liked it.
> 
> Again, thank you for all the kudos so far, and keep the comments going! I really appreciate any feedback.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	5. Missing Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Sorry it took so long; I'd reached a dead point in the story and then decided to let it take a different route than the one I'd originally planned. So, I hope you guys like this! As ever, any comments are much appreciated <3

I wake up, and at first I’m a bit confused. Bright, clean walls, polished wood floors, large sashed windows… what? Then I remember. The first night in my brand new flat!

It hadn’t taken long to find something, with my fat new salary thanks to the dwarf, er, Tyrion I mean. I found myself being strangely picky though. One was the wrong area, another one too dark, yet another the wrong colour scheme. The wrong colour scheme! I almost couldn’t believe myself, since when did I start caring about shit like that? –Then, the estate agent showed me this one. Lovely old Edwardian building in Camden (Camden! I really am going up in the world!), freshly redecorated, new kitchen and bathroom, light, airy rooms. And two bedrooms, so plenty of space. To top it off, it’s quite close to Regent Park, and I know the little bird loves to go for walks in parks.

I mean, not that that matters. I haven’t spoken to her in ages, and she never rang me after I stopped by in Winterfell. I don’t even know where she is – I called at her London flat, only to be told by the new occupiers that she’d moved out. That was stupid of me, of course; I knew she’d stopped working at Lannister, so why would she keep the flat? Still, I happened to be in the area (well sort of, I was only twelve miles away), so I thought I’d try.

I also tried phoning her, maybe once or twice. But she never answered the phone. Bloody rude really, if you ask me! Not like the little bird at all – surely if someone rings you seven, eight times and leaves you messages, at least you’d say “stop calling me” or something?! Never mind. Not like I need her in my life or anything.

Still, rubbing my eyes and looking proudly around my new place, I can’t help thinking how perfect this would be; how she’d love to live here. It’s Saturday, so maybe we would have a coffee in our PJs, then an invigorating shower together, he he, get dressed, a stroll in the park, buy some newspapers and then slouch on the sofa, reading or watching telly or talking….

Ah, get a grip, Sandor. Fuck this shit. She’s not here, and by the looks of it she has no desire to talk to me ever again.

I have a quick solitary shower (well, me and my right hand), grab some fresh underwear, socks, and a pair of jeans. After a quick glance at the grim and grey day outside, I choose my favourite old grey hoody to complete the look. Ha ha. The little bird always chirps about ‘this look’ and ‘that look’ she’s seen in her fashion magazines; didn’t realise I’d picked that phrase up from her.

I suppose I should start unpacking some of these boxes. I only bothered to put up the furniture and get the most necessary things out yesterday, and even though I binned much of the rubbish I’d accumulated in my old flat, there’s still so much _stuff_.

But there’s only so much unpacking I can do in one day. Bugger this! A few hours later, and there are still a few boxes sitting accusingly in a corner. They can wait. I’m starting to feel hungry, but of course I haven’t got anything to eat in my spanking new fridge. Bummer! Outside, it’s still grey  - actually pissing it down with rain now. Weather like this calls for comfort food, so I take Mum’s old cookbook from the shelf and flick through the pages. Something easy, yet filling and warming… ah! Lasagne. Perfect. I quickly write down what I need, then head to the little M&S around the corner.

When I return, I quickly take off my wet hoody, then start to chop the vegetables. I can’t help but imagine the little bird sitting at the small kitchen table, watching me, twittering on about her day as I cook.

We used to do that, sometimes. The little bird has many talents, but cooking isn’t one of them. In fact, you could say she’s utterly useless when it comes to preparing food, and when we stayed in, it would be me slaving over the hob. The little bird would sit there, glass of wine in her hand, and tell me about her life up North, her friends, her family. It was nice. Sort of like having a family again; like I used to sit in the kitchen with Mum after school, and we’d talk about our days as she cooked dinner. I liked having that with the little bird; I even liked being the one who cooked, who provided, while she would relax and watch me. I smile at the memory; and get a strange feeling in my chest – a sort of tightening, it really hurts – am I having a heart attack?

Just then, the doorbell rings. The little bird! I knew it! Of course she would come back to talk things over. I rush to the door and pull it open-

 

-What the fuck is _she_ doing here?? I hope she hasn’t got her sword with her this time! I sniff. Oh shit, my eyes are watery, must be from cutting those onions… but of course, the little bird’s bratty bitch of a sister can’t know that, look how she’s staring at me in disbelief; she might even think I was _crying_ –

 

“I’m making a lasagne!” I blurt out. Whoops, maybe that didn’t make an awful lot of sense without any context – you can tell she thinks I’m completely mad now! “Erm… good for you?!” she says, condescendingly. Stupid cow!

“Ah, fuck off,” I growl at her. “What do you want, anyway?”

 

She gives me a hard stare. “Not you, that’s for sure. And eeuugh, can’t you put some clothes on? Disgusting!” She shields her eyes with her hand, as if she was about to be blinded by the beauty of my naked torso. Forgot to put a fresh top on when I came home earlier, oh well. “I’m here for Sansa.” She shoulders me out of the way, quick as a snake, and makes her way in. “Where is she?”

 

What the fuck is going on? “How should I know?” I retort, surreptitiously wiping my eyes and grabbing a jumper to put on. “And who said you could come in!”

 

The nosy little bitch is going to all the rooms, sticking her head in, even opening my wardrobe. “Do you really think I’d be hiding her in a cupboard?”

She turns around and looks me up and down, frowning. “But then… where is she?” she asks again. –“As I said before, how should I know?” – “But you… you and her were…” – “She broke it off with me, as you well know.”

She lets out a sigh, then walks to my sofa and slumps down on it. “I honestly thought… this was my last hope,” she mutters. Can this get any weirder?

“What are you on about?” I demand. “And why are you looking for the l- for Sansa?”

“She’s gone missing,” Arya says quietly. “After her work placement ended, she came back home to Winterfell. She was so unhappy. And she told us all about the shit she had to put up with from you,” she gives me a pointed stare. “Then last week, she said she was going to London for the weekend. Only she never came back. We called the hotel, and it seems she never even checked in. The police are on it, of course. But even so, we tried to find her on our own. Rang all her school friends. No one has seen her. Then I remembered you.” – “Oh well, aren’t you clever,” I smirk, but my heart’s not really in it. “Well, she isn’t here either. Did anything happen? Did she fall out with your parents or something?”

“No, nothing. That’s just it. Well, she wasn’t… feeling too great lately.” Another pointed look. “But there wasn’t anything that could have made her want to run away, we’ve racked our brains over this so many times. It’s just so – so – _unlike_ Sansa to just run off like that.”

True, the little bird would find it very impolite to leave without a note; and anyway she isn’t the most spontaneous of people, nor the most adventurous.

“What about family?” I venture, “Any relatives that could have taken her in? Her uncle at the wall?” The little bird had once told me about her uncle Benjen, who works for the English Heritage in Northumberland, preserving Hadrian’s Wall and all that.

“Father called him; he hasn’t seen her. Mother also spoke to my Uncle Edmure in Henley-on-Thames, you know, the one with the rowing club?” I nod. “Well, she isn’t there either. And Uncle Petyr hasn’t heard from her either.” – “Uncle Petyr?” I hadn’t heard of him; the little bird never mentioned a third uncle.

“He isn’t strictly speaking my uncle, only by marriage. Mother had a sister, Lysa, who died last year falling down the stairs in her house. Lysa used to be married to Jon Arryn, the Duke of St Albans,” she explains. Yes, that much I’d heard. –“He was much older than my aunt though, so when he died, she re-married. She and Mother have known Petyr Baelish all their lives, he was the son of one of the workers on their estate.”

Petyr Baelish… now that name rings a bell. Clearly, he likes to rub shoulders with the nobility, as he also knows Cersei. I’ve seen him at some of Cersei’s parties – small, smug looking fucker. And there’s something shifty about him. Not openly shifty, he looks very plain, very ordinary. But something about his eyes gave me the creeps, and that doesn’t happen often.

“Did you, or your mother, go and see Baelish? Or just speak on the phone?” I ask.

“Mother called him; we didn’t drive round though. But why should we? He said he’d not seen her, nor heard from her.”

“Still. I think I’ll pay him a visit,” I rumble, and start digging out my biking leathers. They were still left in one of the boxes.

“Hey, what – you? Who said you could get involved? I’m the one looking for her!”

-“Well, piss off! I can do what I like, and don’t need your permission to do so, thanks very much!”

-“Don’t tell me to piss off, _you_ piss off!” she shoots back, bristling.

I sigh. “Seeing as this is MY flat, I suggest you piss off,” I say calmly. “Listen, I don’t want trouble. I just want to find Sansa. I’ve met this Baelish before, there’s something not right about him. I just want to check him out. You can do what you like. Best go back home. How did you even get here?”

“Public transport.” – “What, from Yorkshire?” Is she crazy?

-“No, from our townhouse in Belgravia, you stupid!” she says angrily, then I can see her struggling to calm her temper, and she’s clearly trying to stay civil as she says, “Ok, but listen. Uncle Petyr knows me. Well, he knows _of_ me. I’m his sort-of-niece, so he won’t mind letting me into his house to talk. Whereas you…” she gestures at my face. Obnoxious little twunt! “So what,” I bark.

“Well, if you must go, I could come with you. I’d get us in, and we can both find out whether she’s there or not.”

I want to laugh at her face and tell her to fuck off, but on second thoughts, it’s not a bad idea.

“I’m going on my bike though,” I grumble. That might put her off… ah fuck, of course not. Arya’s face lights up. “Cool! I love motorbikes!” she beams at me.

 

Oh joy. Well, there’s no going back now. “Do you have his address then?” I ask her as I get the spare helmet and biking gear out. –“No, but I’ll quickly text Mother. He’s a MP for the Aylesbury Vale, I believe, so he must live somewhere in Buckinghamshire.”

I only half listen to her. I’ve pulled out the leather jacket I bought for the little bird, when we started going out on Stranger regularly. It still smells so much of her, and there’s a long ginger hair that got stuck on the collar. I’m just sniffing the inside of the jacket when I can see the stupid little bitch giving me an odd look again, as if I’m some dimwit from the loony bin.

“Ahem, sorry to… _interrupt_ , but shouldn’t we get going before it gets too late?” I just growl in return and toss her the jacket, trousers and helmet. They absolutely drown her, seeing as she’s a lot shorter and skinnier than her sister, but it will have to do.

And then we’re off, heading North-West on the A41, the wrong Stark girl clinging to my back as I thread my way through the traffic.

 


	6. Into the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with another update...  
> As ever, let me know what you think!
> 
> And thank you so much to every single person who has left kudos, it means a lot to me.

The journey is quite boring. On a motorbike, you can always avoid traffic, so we just ride on through, on what is for the most part a very straight, very even dual carriageway.

I can’t help wondering about the little bird, and Baelish. Would she have gone to him? I remember the little git – quite ordinary looking, seemingly kind and jovial and trustworthy. The little bird might have fallen for that; she’s an eternal philanthropist, determined to see the good in people.

I suppose that’s the reason why she ended up with me, too. I usually scare people. My face isn’t nice to look at, and I have – no, had – some issues controlling my temper. But the little bird saw right through that; I think she is one of the very few people ever to see the real me.

I suppose I found that a bit unnerving – and incomprehensible. I kept asking myself, why me? What does she see in me? Because let’s face it, the little bird is way out of my league. She’s proper posh, young, beautiful and has been educated at the best schools, and I’m a lower middle class (at a push!) disfigured old fuck-up. When we went out together, people would _stare_ ; no doubt thinking just that. It made me so angry, but somehow I let it all out on the little bird. “Sabotaging myself”, the Elder Brother called it during our counselling sessions.

I’d get more and more snappy with her. Sometimes just to test her, to see if she’d still put up with me, or finally reveal that this was all a big hoax and she never wanted me in the first place. And then there was the booze. Now, I’ve always liked a drink or two, but it was spiralling out of control… I’d get so angry, so I’d drink to numb the pain a bit, then get angry at myself for drinking or shouting at the little bird, then drink even more to calm back down…

And I suppose there was only so much the little bird could take. Long before that day when she left me, the cracks started to show. There was this one time when she got proper mad at me - we had gone out, first to a fancy restaurant, then to a club after. I had my fill of people staring at us, I could see them whispering, nudging each other; and to top it off we ran into some old friends of Sansa’s. You wouldn’t believe the sneering, condescending looks that bitchy Margaery gave me; and her poofy brother Loras was even worse. I left them to it and spent the evening at the bar. I don’t even remember how we got back, but somehow the little bird had gotten me to her flat; and when I woke up the next morning I was sick as a dog, quite literally. That’s when the little bird lost her shit with me: “Those were brand new!!” she yelled, gesturing at the floor where I’d just emptied my stomach; and sure enough I could make out the shape of her shoes underneath the mess. But I was sick, and my head was throbbing, and I couldn’t be arsed to feel sorry about some bloody shoes, so I just said, “Sod your bloody Lobotomies, you can always buy more,” which really didn’t go down well.

“LOUBOUTINS!”, she screamed, getting red in the face. That made me sit up. I had never heard her shout like that before. “They were _Louboutins_ ,” she continued, “and they cost hundreds of pounds! I only bought these yesterday!” She was almost in tears, really! Over _shoes_! Anyway, I had to go and be sick some more, at least that time I went to the bathroom. Still, she didn’t really talk to me anymore for the rest of the day; and I was too pig-headed to apologise.

 

Just then, Arya taps my shoulder and points at the next road sign. Ah yes, that’s the exit I need. We turn off and drive on smaller and ever narrower roads through the countryside, until we finally reach Quainton, the village that Lady Stark gave us as his address. Unfortunately, he’s got one of those houses with only a name, not a number, so we stop and Arya asks some locals for directions. Turns out we have to drive out of the village again, along some godforsaken road that feels like it leads to nowhere, when we spot the Manor House behind a small iron gate.

A nice looking house, really – period property, of course, probably listed; black timber frames with red brick infill, and a clay tiled roof; all crooked with no right angles. If it weren’t in bumpkinsville, I’d love to have a house like that.

 

Arya buzzes the intercom, states her name, and the gate opens. The door to the house is opened by the man himself, a friendly smile on his face, though I notice it doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyebrows arch about an inch higher as I take my helmet off and he gets a look at my face.

 

“Arya! What a… lovely surprise to see you here.” Baelish gives her a peck on the cheek, then holds her by the shoulders as he studies her face. “You look very much like your father, don’t you? Yes, not much of your mother in you at all. I know your mother well, you see,” he smiles again. “Such a shame you couldn’t make it to the wedding when your aunt and I got married. Still, it is nice to finally meet you, even if this is somewhat unexpected.” He shifts his gaze to me. “And you brought a … friend?”

 

Slimy bugger, pretends that he doesn’t know me. “We’ve met before, Mr Baelish. Used to work for Cersei. Saw you at a few of her dos.” – “Of course, of course. Clegane, is it? So, are you Lady Arya’s bodyguard now?” he chuckles at his own stupid joke. I can feel my anger boiling up.

 

Mustn’t let it show. Poker face! “We met through Sansa,” I tell him, only half a lie. –“Well, well. Won’t you two come in? I’ll put the kettle on!” He leads us into the house, through to the drawing room. Once we are seated, he goes back to the kitchen and actually puts the kettle on himself. Strange, I’d have thought a power-hungry man like that would have servants left, right and centre!

 

Arya and I sit in silence and look around the room as we wait for our host to return. All very plush and ‘country chic’, lots of Laura Ashley patterns, brass tack on the walls, sturdy solid oak furniture, a tasteful oil painting of a horse above the fireplace, which looks like it might be a real Stubbs. The room is light and airy thanks to the large French doors leading to the south-facing garden.

 

Baelish returns to the room with a tray in his hands. “There,” he says, setting it down. “Shall I be mother?” He pours each of us a cup of tea, and gestures towards the little milk jug and sugar pot. I help myself to both.

 

“So, what brings you here, Arya?” Baelish asks. Oh, good question. I didn’t make a plan other than come and ask about Sansa; but now that we’re here, I don’t know what to say that doesn’t sound impolite or suspicious. Let’s hope the little turd thought of something!

“Oh, we were sort of passing by,” she smiles sweetly at him. “Sandor here has introduced me to Mixed Martial Arts, and there was a competition in Aylesbury today. So I thought, as we were in the area, we might as well pop in; didn’t I?” she looks at me. I suppose that sounds…plausible? Right, poker face. “Um, yes, yes you did,” I mumble. All well and good, but how can we find out about Sansa?

 

I sip my tea as Arya continues to make small talk conversation with Baelish. Problem with tea is, though, it goes right through me; I can feel my bladder pinching. Ah! Here’s an idea! I’ll excuse myself to go to the bathroom and then I’ll snoop around. There are no traces of the little bird in this room; but then this is the drawing room, used only for visitors, so there wouldn’t be.

 

“Mr Baelish, I wonder if you could direct me to the loo,” I interrupt whatever they were talking about. He looks at me, judging. “Yes, I will show you…” – “No need, no need,” I say quickly. “Just tell me the way.” – “Down the hallway, past the utility room and then the first door on the right,” he instructs me.

 

So off I sneak. Ha! Well, first of all, I really do need the loo. I find it easily enough, relieve myself quickly, and then walk out as quietly as I can. Here’s the kitchen…let’s have a look in the fridge. Hmm. None of the little bird’s favourites in here – no low fat yogurts, salads, or tartes aux citrons. Right. Let’s check out the cloakroom to see if her coat is the- whoa!

 

“Can I help you?” Baelish smiles his creepy smile at me. Shit! I didn’t even hear him coming! “Um, I, um, was just feeling a bit peckish,” fuck, even to my own ears that sounds a bit weak!

“Let’s see. I have some biscuits here that I can offer you?” Baelish takes me by the elbow and leads me back to the drawing room. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! That plan’s gone to shit  - I didn’t find anything out, and I think Baelish suspects what I was looking for. What a waste! “No, thanks, I think I’m alright now,” I reply. Arya looks at me with round astonished eyes, as I try to wordlessly convey to her that we’d better leave pronto.

She must have gotten the message, as she puts her cup down and says, ”Well, Uncle Petyr, it was lovely to finally meet you. Thank you so much for the tea and biscuits. But now I think we ought to get back, else Mum and Dad will be terribly worried. Especially now, after what happened with Sansa…” her voice trails off. “Yes, yes, terrible business. Your mother told me. All very sad. Well, stop by anytime you want, Arya,” he gives her a sickly sweet smile and then plants a wet sounding kiss on her cheek. He turns to me and gives me a nod. “Clegane,” he says, and I can see the ice in his stare. “Baelish”, I return the nod.

 

And then we’re out. I can’t believe we wasted our opportunity like that! Shit! I should have planned this better! As we put our helmets back on, Arya whispers to me, “Don’t drive too far. Find a place to hide the bike, and stop there.” Erm, ok? I wonder what the little girl thinks she can do, where I have failed.

 

Anyway. I do as I was told. We drive down towards the village, when I see a small patch of woodland between the fields. That’ll do. I stop and turn off the engine. “So now, what?” I ask Arya. She shakes her head. “Let’s hide the bike first,” she says, nodding towards the trees. It’s quite hard going as this is all very overgrown, but I manage to get Stranger safely nestled between some fallen logs and a brambly bush. I put some extra twigs and leaves on top of the bike, and it’s invisible from the road. “What’s your genius plan then?” I ask Arya. “We go back, she says, marching off. –“Wait, what? And what then? Do you want to talk to that creepy fucker again? What good would that do?” – “No, I don’t.” Arya is busy stepping over a stile, then makes her way across the sheep field. “You were busy faffing around on the loo, or whatever it was you were doing, and Petyr got quite uneasy and wanted to ‘make sure you were alright’. So while he was out, I unlocked the patio doors, but left them pulled up so they still look locked.” I can only stare at her. Not bad!

“Not quite as useless as you look then,” I grumble. “But there’s an alarm system, didn’t you notice? That will go off as soon as we’re in.”

 

She gives me a smug look as she climbs over another stile to get to the next field. “I opened the flap at the side – you know, where the control panel for the engineers is located – and sure enough, there was a little note with the code written down. 1918,” she tells me.

Ok, so now I’m seriously astounded. What the hell? Here was I thinking that she’s some stupid spoilt brat who couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery, and now she’s saving the whole operation by thinking of everything!

“Um, so… do you know where we are going then?” Do I really want to hear the answer? She probably wouldn’t just stumble around the countryside without a plan. Sure enough… -“Yes, of course. I checked on Google maps while we were there, and there’s a public footpath which leads right past the back garden,” she waves her phone in front of my face. “But I figured we’ll go round the front first, hide and wait until he leaves.”

I just grunt in return. I can’t quite hide my embarrassment. Shown up by a 16-year-old girl!

The sun is about to set as we follow the footpath across yet another sheep field, when Arya stops by a tall yew hedge. “This is it. This is the boundary of his garden,” she says. We make our way round to the front. Thankfully, there are plenty of bushes around the fence, so we find a nice rhododendron to settle in, and wait.

It’s getting colder and darker by the minute, but we don’t have to wait too long. After only about half an hour, we see the front door open, and Baelish steps out and locks the door behind him. He gets into his BMW, beeps the gate open, and he’s off. We wait another couple of minutes to make sure he doesn’t return, and then find a spot where we can climb the fence.  As we go around the house to get to the back doors, I notice something. “Look there,” I point to the ground by the side of the house. “An air vent. There must be a cellar under the house.”

 I hold my breath as we approach the patio doors, will this really work? Arya pulls the door open. Immediately, a penetrating _beep-beep-beep_ comes from the alarm system; but she punches the numbers in the keypad and then there’s silence. Jeez, I can’t believe it really worked!

“Good work,” I mutter. She’s done well, I’ll give her that. “Let’s split. I’ll check upstairs, you go around here.” She nods, and I make my way up the stairs. Lots of bedrooms, all of them unused save for one. I take a closer look, but it looks like just one person sleeps in the bed, and there’s no sign of a woman’s presence anywhere. I check all the wardrobes just to be sure, but nothing. Same in the bathrooms, all men’s toiletries, single toothbrush, general lack of clutter; it’s very disappointing. I go back down to check with Arya.

She’s coming back to the entrance hall as I come down the stairs. “Nothing up there,” I say. “Have you found anything?” – “No.” I feel my heart sink. I was so sure, _so sure_ that Baelish had something to do with the little bird’s disappearance. I turn to go, when Arya calls, “Wait! I wasn’t finished. There’s one door that’s locked, at the end of the hallway.”

Oh? I get a funny tingling feeling in my stomach. Call it my spider sense, but I know that this must be it. “Let’s check the kitchen for spare keys,” I suggest. We rummage through the drawers and come up with a few different keys. Arya leads me to the locked door, and we try them until – bingo! – one of them fits.

I carefully open the door, but all I can see are stairs leading down. The cellar, of course. I switch on the light, and we go down. There is a small corridor with four doors, all very nondescript, modern MDF panelled doors. I open the first. Lots of shelves, and lots of food. “A larder,” Arya can barely conceal her disappointment. We try the next one. More wooden shelves, this time filled with wine bottles. Hm, quite the collection he’s got there! All very expensive looking vintage wines, mind you, not the litre bottles of Spanish anti-freeze I’m used to. Was used to. Not anymore. I sigh, and shut the door. Was I wrong about Baelish after all?

 

Arya opens the next door, and fumbles for the light switch. When the light comes on, my stomach turns.

This room is bigger than the first two. It has bare concrete walls, so thick they are bound to muffle any sounds. In the middle of the room is a medical looking bench, and there is a table with… _instruments_. There are chains anchored in the walls, and ropes of various degrees of thickness neatly lined up. I can see something that looks like a branding iron, and other items of which I can only guess what they’re used for. The stench of sterilising liquid fills the air, and I feel like I might need to be sick. Then Arya taps me on the arm, and wordlessly points to a corner. There is a box. A large box, made of thick wood with iron hinges. And there are air holes in it.

Ok, get a grip, get a grip… I can’t let Arya see how frightened I am, but my hands are sweating as I turn the key in the big padlock, which secures the box. I open the lid and

\---Oh thank fuck for that!!! It’s empty. Phew! I let out a half laugh and look at Arya, who seems equally relieved. This room is creepy as fuck though, and I want to get out. We leave everything as we found it, and shut the door behind us. Then I remember – there is one last door…

I go and open it, but behind it there is another door. This one isn’t made of cheap MDF, it’s welded steel, with a small window to look into the room, like in a prison. There are several locks on it. Arya steps closer. “What’s in the room?” We both try to peer inside. It’s dark, and I can’t make out much – a toilet, a sink, and a narrow bed with some blankets bundled on it – when Arya shuffles around to get a better view, and the light from the hallway shines through the small window and hits the bundle of blankets. And then I see it, a flash of ginger- no, no, auburn, not ginger – and my world turns upside down; I hammer against the door with my fists, I try to break the glass in the window, I scream, and scream, and scream.

A slap in my face makes me turn to Arya; and I realise she must have been pummelling me for a while to get my attention. She’s crying. “Stop, Sandor, stop!” she sobs. “We can’t get in. This is too big for us. We have to go and call the police.” Is she mad? “We can’t leave her here!” I yell. Why doesn’t she understand? –“We have to; we can’t do this on our own, come now, we have to call the police! There’s no reception down here! Do you want Baelish to come back and lock us in, too?”

She’s sort of making sense, but I can’t… I look through the window, and my heart stops. The little bird has gotten up from the bed, she’s standing pressed against the door, crying, her hands against the glass, _reaching_ for me…

 

“I won’t leave you,” I whisper.

“We have to leave everything as it was,” says Arya.

She drags me away from the door. I look at Sansa through the window, and see a big tear rolling down her cheek, mirroring mine, as I shut the outer door and cast her into darkness again.

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so this idea has been floating around in my head for quite a while - I wanted a modern AU, but Sansa still to be Lady Sansa. Thank goodness we still have gentry here in the UK ;)
> 
> As you will have noticed, this story starts at the end... or rather, in the middle. There will be flashbacks and the story progressing from here on. I do intend to focus on Sandor and Sansa's relationship though.
> 
> Also, I only have a few details worked out yet, and the rest is still a bit vague, so bear with me!  
> Constructive criticism and any feedback are very welcome.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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